


Constellation

by intrepidheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Stargazing, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 23:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3873778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrepidheart/pseuds/intrepidheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You should be lookin’ at the stars, not at me.” Dean tries to fight against the blush he knows is rising up his neck from not even being stared at, but fucking gazed at, like he was something to be hung up and admired for hours, except he’s just him and while he knows he gets his fair share of appreciation, he sure as hell doesn’t deserve the treatment that Sam’s giving him right now.</p><p>“Don’t need the stars,” Sam says softly, tapping his fingertip in a few different places just below Dean’s right eye. “I have my own constellation right here.” </p><p>Or it's Sam's 17th birthday and Dean wants to make it up to Sam for John dragging him off on a hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constellation

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing from Dean's POV and in my head he swears extravagantly, so if swearing is a turn off for you then maybe don't proceed. 
> 
> I really wanted to post this yesterday on Sam's actual birthday but it didn't work out as planned, so here it is a day late.

Dean would really rather be anywhere other than knee-deep in a swamp right in the middle of Bridgewater Triangle, Massachusetts with John as they fight their way through the sucking, puke-inducing muck towards the cabin John swears is full of witches.

Scratch that. There is only one place Dean would rather be right now and it’s back in the motel room next to Sam, drinking a cold one and making fun of his stupidly long hair or something. Because it’s his birthday today, it’s his birthday and instead of being there to give Sam the present Dean bought him four months ago, Dean’s gritting his teeth and smacking his cheek to kill all the fucking mosquitoes that decided to make a meal out of his skin.

“Dean!” John hisses over his shoulder, shotgun cocked and at the ready, barrel pointing straight ahead. “Stay sharp! Take the far side and jump them from the back door. I’m going around front.”

The “Yessir” leaves Dean’s mouth without a second thought and his legs slop as quietly as they can (it sounds like he’s a goddamn elephant stomping through a muddy riverbed) through the swamp to come around the back of the cabin that hovers over the disgusting water on rotting stilts. The wooden cabin is decrepit and creaking with every humid gust of wind that manages to pass through the area. Dean ducks down, moving low under the open window to clamber onto dry (wet, it’s all fucking wet, there’s nothing dry in a 200 mile radius of this godforsaken place) land before moving silently to press his back to the wood by the back door, his own shotgun held tight to his chest. Chanting and the sharp bite of incense fill Dean’s senses. He turns his head to watch John round the corner before giving the signal. Dean spins on his heel and boots the termite-eaten door right below the rusty doorknob, knocking it completely off its hinges as he steps in and starts barking orders down the barrel of his gun at the huddled trio of raggedy ass women in the middle of the room.

When Dean starts spitting up blood, he’s reminded why he hates witches, fucking hates them all, fuck these crazies because he knows for damn sure that a werewolf would never be able to make his stomach physically try to crawl out his throat.

John bursts in a second later, efficiently taking out the altar that was the center of the witches’ attention before flicking his lighter open to throw it onto the large spell book on the floor. Shrieks and wails ensue around Dean from his position on the floor with blood covering his chin, his body finally responding to him and not the dark magic that is pulsing in the very walls to stand up and heft his gun back up to take aim.

This is why John had really left Sam at home; not as a birthday gift, not as a day off from the life that he constantly lets both Dean and John know he hates with every cell of his body, but because he was very strict on the whole “we don’t kill humans” thing. But look, sometimes a certain group of witches went seriously fucking bad, like blood magic and necromancy bad, and just destroying their spell book wasn’t enough because apparently there’s some black market type deal that hands out dark spell books like fucking candy so it’s just easier for Sam to think this is the usual kind of hunt and for John and Dean to leave out the gritty details.

Those gritty details have now ruined Dean’s just-washed shirt with their gore and brain matter and yeah, maybe Dean didn’t need to blow that bitch’s head off but she had just been coaxing Dean’s insides out of his mouth so he has a little resentment in him.

The cabin is silent now except for the constant creaking and Dean and John’s combined pants as they survey the blood spattered remains of the living room. Time to clean up.

By the time they drag the bodies out into the deepest part of the swamp and Dean manages to wipe off most of the gore so the blood on his shirt looks like only his own from when he had been choking it out, it is early evening. John and Dean make their way back to the Impala on land this time, which Dean is beyond fucking thankful for because the only water he wants to look at is if it’s coming from a showerhead and he is never going near a swamp ever again because fuck these places.

It’s an hour and a half later that they’re pulling into the motel parking lot and John is saying that he needs to go grab something so Dean should just head on inside now which is John-speak for ‘I’m going to the nearest bar and plan to do an impressive line of shots before finding a girl to take me back to her place’ and that’s just not okay. Not today.

Dean stays where he is.

“Dad…” Dean stares out the front windshield and feels his airway start to constrict. “It’s Sammy’s birthday. You can’t wait 24 hours?”

Dean can hear John’s grip on the steering wheel tighten.

“You watch your tone.”

“I don’t have a tone. I have a problem understanding you when your youngest kid is sitting in a shitty motel room after we’ve been gone all day on his 17th birthday waiting to see if we’re even gonna show up at all and you want to hit the bar.”

Granted, Sam had said some pretty obnoxious shit to John before he had dragged Dean out by the collar to come with him on the hunt, because for whatever fucking reason it was not allowed nope, no sir, not fucking allowed for Sam and Dean to be alone together anymore without John around, so of course John had to insist that he couldn’t take these witches on by himself while Sam shouted himself hoarse that it was his fucking _birthday_ , you sonuvabitch why do you have to ruin _every_ _fucking birthday_ and at that point Dean just gave Sam his ‘please shut the fuck up before you make it worse’ look which Sam ignored because that’s just Sam.

So yeah, okay, Dean kind of understands why John wants to steer clear.

Out of the corner of Dean’s eye he sees John’s chest start to puff up in preparation to reem Dean’s ass for backtalk or what the fuck ever so he backpedals, grabbing his bag that has his gun and other gear from the backseat before he says, “Forget it” and steps out of the passenger side into the night air. The Impala lurches backwards with a sharp squeal before gunning off onto the main road, the rumbling engine fading from Dean’s earshot within seconds. Shaking his head, Dean turns to start walking towards their room when the door lurches open on its own and suddenly Dean is smothered in nearly six feet of Sam being all handsy and shit and Dean would be lying if he said it didn’t feel good to be able to wrap his arms around his little brother.

“ _Dean_ , Jesus Christ, I was worried, why didn’t you call me when you were a few minutes out, I could’ve gotten something ready for you-what the _fuck_ , is that blood, Dean? Are you okay? Are you hurt? Where’s Dad?”

“Slow down there, Mile A Minute,” Dean says as Sam’s hands are dancing over the front of his chest to find the still-damp spatters of blood on his shirt. “I’m fine, Dad’s fine-“ He’s being smothered again with Sam-heat. “-and I could explain it all if you give me a second to _breathe_ , you damn octopus, how many appendages do you even have?”

“Let’s get you inside, come on,” Sam finally decides to release Dean and push him into the motel room with his hands on Dean’s back, as if Dean needs any further prompting to head into the room that held the shower he desperately needs.

Sam hustles Dean over to sit on the edge of the bed and Dean has to resist the urge to roll his eyes because he knows that Sam needs to fuss over him as part of his routine. He was worried sick while John and Dean were gone so Dean can indulge the kid in a few minutes of overprotective fretting.

“Shit, Dean, what happened out there? Your shirt is soaked.”

“Fucking witches, I’m telling you, Sammy. I want them all dead. I hate them and their creepy hands and chanting and fucking everything. Tried to make my insides do an Olympic sprint from where they’re supposed to be out onto the floor.” As a dumb afterthought, Dean adds, “You just did laundry too. Sorry.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam mutters, shaking his head as he yanks the hem of the bloodstained shirt up and over Dean’s head. Sam’s hands are persistent but gentle as they roam Dean’s arms, chest, stomach, searching for any cuts or bruises or anything else that he must think Dean wouldn’t tell him about, like, seriously Sam, why would I lie and say I’m fine if I wasn’t, on your birthday of all days?

Dean’s skin is starting to get too hot and rub against his bones in a way that whispers warnings about Sam’s hands on his chest but he tells it to shut up becaue it’s Sam’s birthday and he can do whatever he wants because Dean already let John take his ass out on a hunt when he should have been with Sam from midnight to midnight, so seriously just shut up, skin.

“You’re okay.” It’s a relieved exhale that leaves Sam as he sits back on his haunches from where he had folded himself at the foot of the bed in front of Dean.

“Of course I’m okay. Told you I was, didn’t I?”

Sam nods jerkily.

“Now I’m gonna go wash the witch off me ‘cause I’m crawling in my skin here.”

Dean stands up and Sam does too, scrambles to his feet like he’s 6 and not 16-no, 17 now, he’s 17 today and Christ, Dean’s running a hand over his face because Sam’s practically a grown man and that’s still a lot to process.

“I’ll grab you some clothes,” says Sam before he’s over at the duffle bags rooting through the piles of shirts and jeans. A smile on his face, Dean gets himself to the bathroom and shirks off the rest of his clothes before climbing into the tub. The scalding hot water working off the congealed mud and dirt that is sticking to his arms and legs from the swamp is the best thing Dean’s ever felt in his entire life and he takes a moment to let the pounding stream beat against his upturned face. He wishes John would get the fuck back here because Dean’s present for Sam is in the trunk of the car, shoved way in the back and covered with one of Dean’s jackets and it would just be really great if John could stop acting like a sulking teenager, they already had Sam to do that, thanks very much. With a sigh, Dean gets to work scrubbing his body clean from head to toe before stepping out of the shower. Scrubbing his hair dry with one towel and wrapping a second one around his waist, Dean steps back into the main room. Sam is sitting at the small table by the window, two cold beers sweating onto the wood as he plays with his hands and stares at Dean.

“Those both better be for me,” Dean says as he turns to walk over to his bed where Sam has laid out a neat pile of new jeans, a black shirt and even clean underwear. This kid.

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam snaps half-heartedly and Dean smiles because even with his back turned, he knows that Sam has started guzzling the beer closest to him in case Dean really tries to tell him he can’t drink it (as if Dean would ever do that, they’ve been drinking since Sam was 14, c’mon Sam).

Dean looks over his shoulder and whips his towel off from around his waist to throw it over Sam’s head, giving Dean enough privacy for a moment to pull on his briefs before shoving his legs into the jeans. He feels the towel smack into the back of his head as he’s thumbing the metal button through the hole above the zipper.

“Hang it up like a normal person, jerk. I’m not a drying rack.”

“Really? My bad. You’re tall enough to be one.”

Dean tosses the towel onto his bed and turns, working the shirt over his head as he pads over to the table before throwing himself dramatically into the seat across from his brother. Sam turns to face him, his eyes still attentively on Dean.

“Dad went to the bar, didn’t he?”

Dean closes his eyes for a brief second and picks up his beer, taking a long pull from the bottle.

“Yeah.”

“Prick.”

“Sam.”

“It’s my fucking birthday-“

Dean sets the glass down on the tabletop a little harder than necessary.

“Would you even want him here if he hadn’t gone? You were bitching pretty hard when we were on our way out so it isn’t hard to pick up where he got the idea that maybe you didn’t want him around tonight.”

Sam is glaring at his beer, rolling it back and forth between his hands instead of meeting Dean’s eyes. Sulky little fucker.

Sam mumbles something under his breath that makes Dean pause mid-lift to bring his beer to his mouth.

“Wazzat?”

Dean watches pleasant pink start flush up Sam’s neck to his cheeks as his grip tightens on his bottle.

“He knew I just wanted to be with you today, that’s why he dragged you off.” Sam says louder, picking at the beer label with his fingernail. Still not meeting Dean’s eyes. Which is probably a good thing because Dean’s eyebrows have shot up to his hairline and he’s struggling to swallow down the lump in his throat because shit shit shit and fuck.

“He just needed help with the hunt, Sammy, you know witches are-“

Finally Sam looks up and the look in his eye shuts Dean up real quick.

“You _know_ he could have handled that without you. He’s taken on more than that by himself before.”

“I’m back now, Sam,” Dean tips his beer bottle towards Sam while forcing a stupid smile on his face. “Now it’s time to get you drunk.”

After a second of hesitation, Sam tilts his bottle to clink against Dean’s and they both drink. By the time Sam lowers his beer, he’s smiling too.

For the next hour and a half the two of them watch one of the three channels the motel provides on the shitty TV and Dean encourages three more beer into Sam (because Sam won’t stop complaining that it’s his birthday and he should be able to drink as much as he wants, not because Dean is some sicko, for God’s sake). Meanwhile, Dean stopped after his first and is now currently nursing a glass of water in one hand while his other digs through the soft strands of his brother’s hair. They’re sprawled on the too-small couch, Sam leaning against Dean’s shoulder with one leg slung over both of Dean’s which are propped on the coffee table and the other planted on the floor. Sam is currently rattling off how something about this sci-fi movie they’re watching is scientifically impossible and Dean only snorts and shakes his head because God, only this kid.

The doorknob rattles behind them and Dean’s head whips around so fast that a muscle spasms in his neck. His hunter instincts are screaming at him _get the gun, duck behind the couch, check the salt lines, is Sammy safe?_ but when he hears the key drop to the ground and John’s muffled swearing, he forces his mind to relax. Turning back to the TV, he eyes the position that he and Sam are in and starts to retract his legs so Sam will be forced to move his giraffe leg from its place on top of them except Sam’s muscles are tensing and shit, Dean can only watch as Sam swings his other leg across Dean’s lap and defiantly shoves his head right under Dean’s chin. Fucking Sammy.

“You little shit.” Dean breathes out as he yanks a little harder than necessary on Sam’s hair before draping his arm along the back of the couch as the key starts to fit into the lock again.

The door finally creaks open and John stumbles in and of course Sam has to mutter “Typical” which makes Dean swat the back of his head.

“Hey, Dad.”

John shuts the door and is starting over to his bed when he pauses, sluggish eyes dragging over the tangled mess that is Dean and Sam. Dean’s pulse skyrockets, thrumming under his skin like he just stumbled into a djinn’s lair and he watches John watching Sam watching the TV.

Clearing his throat, Dean gestures at John with the hand that is resting on the back of the couch.

“Could I grab the keys to the car? I need to go pick something up.”

John’s eyes move back to Dean’s and Dean tenses at the accusation that bubbles under the rough surface of his father’s face. Setting his jaw, Dean keeps his hand outstretched and waiting for the keys because today is Sam’s fucking birthday and John can give him shit for being _tooclose_ with his brother on any day other than today, so just give Dean the fucking keys.

They just skim off his fingertips and land in a jingling heap by Sam’s hip on the couch before John offers a gruff, “Not a single scratch on her, you hear me?” before kicking off his boots. John stops again, turns, walks over to the two of them and shit, this is it, he’s gonna rip Sammy off of Dean and Dean can’t help but move his hand that isn’t reaching for the keys forward to clench around Sam’s wrist that’s hanging off Dean’s hip. John’s eyes find the movement and his jaw clenches visibly. Fuck.

“Happy birthday, Sammy.”

Both Dean and Sam look up in shock before John taps Sam’s knee (that is draped all the fuck over Dean’s legs, shit and fuck) with his hand on his way back to his bed where he promptly faceplants and is out like a light.

“He smells like sex and booze.” Sam is grumbling into Dean’s collarbone.

“How would you know what sex smells like?” Dean says back as he scoops up the car keys. Sam shifts his legs and his thigh is grazing over the top of Dean’s lap so yeah, it’s time to go. Dean stands up fast enough that Sam’s legs thunk down to the floor and Sam is scowling at him so of course Dean has to grin back. “C’mon, shortstack, gotta give you your present.”

Sam brightens immediately and is on his feet in a second, swaying slightly from the beers.

“Present?!”

Dean has the decency to look offended.

“You think I wasn’t gonna get you a damn present? Get the blankets.”

Sam bolts to the bed and works the thick, musty blanket from underneath the duvet into his arms before meeting Dean over by the door. With one last glance at their sleeping father, they slip out together, closing the door behind them with a click.

“Where are we going?” Sam is still whispering even though they’re outside. Dean creaks open the driver’s side door and slips in as Sam does the same on the other side, shaking his head as he shoves the key in the ignition.

“You can talk normally, genius, he’s not gonna hear us. Seriously, you’re supposed to be the smart one.”

Sam punches Dean’s shoulder so Dean cuffs Sam back on his head, which makes Sam slap at Dean’s stomach and what are they, fucking toddlers? Dean shoves Sam over to his side of the leather seat.

“Keep your octopus limbs to yourself, I’m trying to drive, bitch.”

Sam’s smiling when he says, “Yeah, whatever, jerk.”

Twenty minutes later, they’re on the highway and Dean is pulling off onto a sideroad he explored the day before when he was looking for the perfect place to set this all up. Sam is bouncing up and down (isn’t he supposed to be 17?) and won’t stop nagging Dean. He would usually crank the music up to drown Sam out but the forest lining either side of the car seems to emphasize that silence is only appropriate at eleven o’clock at night so he nudges the radio off and lets his arm hang out the window.

“ _Dean!_ ” Sam whines for the fiftieth fucking time and Dean finally taps the brakes and puts the Impala in park.

“We’re here, Jesus, you’re a naggy son of a bitch. Out of the car, King Kong.”

Sam is gone in a heartbeat and Dean sighs before he follows, both slamming the doors behind them. They’re parked on the edge of a field ringed with towering trees, the sky an open, navy canvas laid out above their heads. Dean lowers his gaze to fall on Sam, who has his head tilted completely back as he walks a few steps into the field for a better look. Dean’s heart is twisting in his chest and he feels nearly nauseous in his fear that Sam’s gonna turn around and say “Stargazing? Seriously?” because yeah, they haven’t really had a chance to do this in a few years and maybe he’s grown out of it or something. But then there’s the soft chuff of shoes against long grass when Sam moves around to Dean’s side of the car and Dean feels the metal of the door against his back and Sam’s arms around his neck as Sam pushes his brother into a crushing hug.

“Thank you.” It’s a puff of hot breath against Dean’s neck and goosebumps are prickling along his skin but he’s smiling and hugging Sam back.

“’S not the only thing. Get off so I can show you.”

Sam stays put, arms tightening across Dean’s back as his body heats the line of Dean’s. Dean can feel the shift, the toeing of the hair-thin line that hasn’t been, shouldn’t be, won’t ever be crossed and he’s dancing his hands to Sam’s ribs to tickle him because he knows without fail that Sam is going to have to let go and retaliate.

“F-fuck off!” Sam’s gasping through his laughter as he stumbles back, batting at Dean’s hands.

Before Sam can do anything else, Dean moves to the trunk and props it open. Reaching far into the back, Dean shoves the jacket off the bundle and yanks out the large box to tuck it under his arm before sticking his hand back in to grab a second smaller box. Shutting the trunk, Dean sets both presents onto the metal as Sam comes over to stand next to him, their shoulders brushing. Their eyes meet.

“Fireworks?” Sam grins.

“Yeah, well,” Dean scratches the back of his head as he stares at the large box of assorted fireworks and the smaller box full of sparklers. “Figured it might be fun or something.”

Without another word, Sam grabs both boxes and legs it out into the middle of the field. Dean kicks the front tire as he follows the path in the long grass that Sam has stomped down with his ginormous feet. It’s a bit cool out in the open air, a soft breeze brushing through Dean’s hair as he watches Sam work by the light of the moon to pull out the first firework he wants to set off. Dean doesn’t even realize he has a sappy smile on his face until Sam beams up at him.

“Ready?”

Dean waves his Zippo in the air as his answer. Sam moves his stash of sparkly explosives off to the side before setting up the biggest one of the bunch right in the middle of the field. _Normal_ people wait and keep the big one for the grand finale but not Sam. He’s always set it off first, claiming that if he died from an aneurysm or heart attack or something else before they got to the last firework he wouldn’t have seen the one he had been waiting all night to see and where was the justice in that? So Dean flicks the Zippo open and lights the string, skipping backwards to clear some space just before it goes whizzing up into the air, the sharp crackle filling every bit of space around the brothers. It explodes overhead into a rainbow of neon colors, bursting in flaring circles and looping spirals before finally dying off. Sam whoops and dashes forward to do the next one, and repeat. By the fourth firework, Sam sets them all up near each other and takes Dean’s lighter (he better not lose it, that’s Dean’s favorite one and he’s been careful not to lose it whenever he’s on a salt-and-burn) and lights them all up one after the other so six fireworks all explode and shoot up at once. Sam’s cheering and shoving two sparklers in Dean’s hands, lighting the tips before doing his own and then he’s spinning, a whirl of light turning around him as he holds the sparklers out at arms length.

This is heaven, Dean’s decided. Sam’s laughter, his face finally free of worry and stress and his usual sulking teenage angst to just feel the moment and spin his way into oblivion under the stars. Dean’s spinning now too, Sam’s hand hot on his wrist as he yanks Dean into his twisting twirling vortex of giggles and Sam-ness. And Dean wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Hey, Dean! Dean! Watch.” Sam’s stopped now, and is trailing his sparklers through the air to spell out something.

_T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U_

Dean couldn’t stop smiling if he wanted to.

 _B-I-T-C-H_ Dean spells back.

Sam huffs, his bangs flying up over his forehead but he’s grinning so he isn’t really annoyed.

The sparklers are dying off now and the fireworks have stopped, their only traces being the smoke that is being blown out of the clearing by a strong gust of wind that’s rustling the trees around them.

“Move the shit from the middle,” Dean orders as he finishes spelling out a dirty joke with his sparklers before they die completely with a puff of grey, wispy smoke. “I’m gonna move the car.” So Sam collects the dead ends of the fireworks and tosses them back into the large box before standing out of the way for Dean to pull the Impala into the middle of the field at a crawl. Turning off the car, Dean grabs the blanket from the front seat before getting out. Sam clambers onto the hood of the car, scooching back so he can lay back against the windshield and rest his head back to see the stars. Dean joins him, pulling the blanket behind them both so it settles over their backs and can be brought around their chests. Sam’s shoulder burns pleasantly against Dean’s as he leans back and tries to take in the vast blanket of stars overhead.

“That’s Orion,” Sam speaks up after about ten minutes of silence, lifting his hand to point out a constellation on the far right side of their field of vision. “The Hunter.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s voice is a rasp as he runs his hand up and down his thigh. He didn’t even realize his hands were getting sweaty.

“Yeah.”

“What’s the bear one again?”

Sam chuckles, then raises his finger to trace the Big Dipper that’s to their left now.

“The Big Dipper makes up part of it, but that’s it there.”

“Right.” Dean’s eyes catch a flare of light right over top of them and grabs Sam’s knee, pointing. “Shooting star! Shit! Make a wish, Sammy!”

The shooting star continues its streak for another heartbeat and a half before fading away in the darkness from whence it came. Dean’s always loved watching for shooting stars, making a game out of counting how many he could see each time they ever had a chance to do something like this. Dean turns to look at Sam, expecting to see his profile looking up but Sam’s looking at him and Dean frowns a bit because hello, he just pointed out a _shooting star_ on the kid’s birthday and if that isn’t a sign that the universe wanted to grant one of Sam’s wishes then he didn’t know what it is.

“Did you make a wish?”

“Yeah.” Sam says it all breathy and weird and it makes the nape of Dean’s neck tickle except, no, that’s Sam’s fingers brushing the short hairs at the base of Dean’s skull.

Dean swallows. Counts to fifteen in his head. Tries to remember how to make his lungs expand and contract.

“It better have been something good because you got a shooting star on your _birthday_ , you lucky son of a bitch, so it’s bound to come true.”

“I hope it does.” Why is Sam staring at Dean’s mouth? Dean shifts, turning his body to put his hand on the windshield to push himself off the hood of the car because there it is again, that stupid fucking line that is blazing red with warnings and sirens and all the shit that Dean didn’t want to be seeing right now, except he isn’t pushing off the car because Sam’s arms are bracketing Dean’s torso and when the fuck did the kid move that fast ever? Dean freezes where he is, his chest brushing against Sam’s with every rapid rise of breath, his eyes trailing over the planes of Sam’s face. When did he become so grown up? The baby fat has melted away and left sharp cheekbones, and the line of his jaw is prominent along with the sharp relief of his nose and his eyes, fuck, Sam’s eyes are drowning him in dark pools of green and black and yeah, Dean really has forgotten how to breathe.

“Dean.”

The sound of his own name jars oxygen back into his lungs.

“What?” he says gruffly, still frozen, still waiting for Sam to turn away and lay back against the car.

“Just…” Sam trails off and Dean jumps at the feeling of fingertips slipping up his jaw. “Please?” And Dean is melting because Sam is using the _Sam_ voice and it’s all soft and pleading and his eyes are on Dean’s mouth again and that obnoxious line is being smothered in thoughts like _Well it’s his birthday_ and _It’s not like anyone is gonna know_ so fuck it, fuck it all, because when has Dean ever been able to resist Sam in any way, shape or form?

It’s a soft, tentative brush of lips at the corner of his mouth that rocks Dean’s very soul to the core, his hands clenching the scratchy fabric of the blanket beneath his palms just to make sure he stays grounded because he really probably is going to float off into the sky to burst into flames like one of the stars that is webbed above their heads. Then it comes again, this time across the pillows of Dean’s lips and his eyes are slipping shut as Sam pushes him back down against the windshield. He can feel Sam’s bangs brushing across his forehead as Sam leans down, can feel Sam’s thighs on either side of his own without putting any of his weight on Dean, can hear the hood of the Impala creaking underneath their bodies to accommodate the shift in weight from both sides to just one, can smell Sam’s cheap dollar store shampoo and it’s all so overwhelmingly _Sam_.

Sam nudges his head down a little more to fully press his mouth against Dean’s and yeah, no, there’s no mistaking this for anything other than a kiss. Dean’s heart is in his throat, choking out any remaining air and his hands are shaking and hovering just above Sam’s waist because fuck if he knows what they’re gonna do if they make contact with his skin and this is wrong, bad, Dean’s supposed to be the responsible one except _fuck_ , Sam’s tongue is dragging along his bottom lip so of course Dean’s mouth opens in response with a gasp and everything just burns up to the stars from there.

His hands are gripping Sam’s sides and Sam’s hands are forcing Dean’s jaw down and tilting his head back to give him even more access to Dean’s mouth, Sam’s tongue tracing patterns on the roof of Dean’s mouth before Dean’s slips against it with a question. The strangled noise that bursts against Dean’s lips from Sam’s throat makes Dean tremble, one hand skittering up Sam’s chest to knot in the soft, long hair at the back of his head. Sam lets Dean guide his face down to the column of Dean’s throat where he starts mouthing at the heated skin. Dean bites back every swear word his mind has ever come across because he wants to listen to Sam’s little gasps of breath between each kiss he plants on Dean’s collarbones. Sam hooks a finger in the collar of Dean’s shirt to pull it down and fucking _bite_ just under the hollow of Dean’s clavicle and that makes the air whistle out of Dean’s mouth as he says, “Fuck, Sam, fuck you can’t-“

“’S my birthday,” Sam mumbles back before soothing the red spot with his tongue, Dean’s back arching in response. “Can do whatever I want.” Yeah, yeah, he can, and Dean’s gonna let him because this kid has him wrapped around his little fucking finger.

Pulling back, Sam lets himself fully sit down into Dean’s lap, his fingers dancing up over the bridge of Dean’s nose and across the tops of his cheeks, his air coming out in little puffs as he just stares. Dean watches Sam’s eyes as they dart back and forth on the skin of Dean’s cheeks.

“You should be lookin’ at the stars, not at me.” Dean tries to fight against the blush he knows is rising up his neck from not even being stared at, but fucking _gazed_ at, like he was something to be hung up and admired for hours, except he’s just him and while he knows he gets his fair share of appreciation, he sure as hell doesn’t deserve the treatment that Sam’s giving him right now.

“Don’t need the stars,” Sam says softly, tapping his fingertip in a few different places just below Dean’s right eye. “I have my own constellation right here.” And doesn’t that just make Dean’s heart leap into his throat and then they’re kissing again, Dean’s hand pulling Sam down to meet him as Dean leans them both back over the hood of the car. The blanket has fallen away from Sam’s shoulders by now and Dean’s fingers are searching to find it again to yank it over the both of them because Sam needs to be shielded from anything other than Dean, Dean’s the only one who can see Sam like this, vulnerable and needy and breathless and everything else that Dean can’t put to words.

It’s after a few more minutes of breathy gasps and tangled tongues that Sam finally pulls away again. Dean brushes his thumb along the puffy pink of Sam's lips and can't help the smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth as he admires his own work. 

"Thank you, Dean. For everything." 

Dean's eyes flick up to meet Sam's and the breath that he just managed to get back into his lungs is out again at the pure, unadulterated love that is practically pouring out of Sam's deep greens and all he can manage to do is nod. 

Sam pushes off Dean and settles down at his side now, Dean's arm slung over his shoulders as he lays back next to Dean. Dean goes with it, pulls the blanket up over their fronts against the cool fingers of night air that were pawing at their exposed skin. Sam's looking back up at the sky again and Dean's looking down at Sam's face, catching the twinkle of the stars above reflecting in his eyes. 

"You should be looking at the stars, not me." Sam teases, quirking one eyebrow up at Dean before returning his gaze back overhead.

"Don't need stars. I have my whole universe right here."


End file.
